Empty Handed

I should be used to this feeling by now. It's not strange to me anymore. I'm sure there's a word to describe it somewhere. Not insecurity nor inadequacy, certainly a far cry from insincerity. It's somewhere between incompetency and ineffectuality. Could I be a little more vague?

I spent the morning with a visitor witnessing several of our projects in a poor village near Phnom Penh. I've done this fairly often, I'm used to the routine, prepared for the questions. I'd even been to this particular village before and met some of the people there. Pretty much nothing about the day was a surprise… and maybe that's where this feeling makes me particularly uncomfortable.

We sat on the floor of a small house, surrounded by women who are part of an education group. They learn about preventing HIV, and today they learned about treating childhood asthma and preventing pneumonia. Seven of the women are HIV positive, and 5 of them are on Anti-Retroviral medications (ARV). Two of the women said their husbands are also infected. It's a sobering reality to share floor space with such stories. These women know their husbands were unfaithful and are living with the consequences—living and dying with them, I should say.

One of the women, a 23 year old, was actually part of the last visit I made to this village, and was interviewed for a WR video. I have heard her story, but even this time, was brought to tears as she recounted her tragic past. Sold by her older sister into prostitution at 17, she was beaten by the brothel owner and raped by his "customers." When she was finally able to leave, the owner talked her into coming back. Eventually she left again, and made her way back to her parent's home. That was about a year ago, and now she lives with her family, whose neglect of her health, theft of what little she has (or what is given to her), and disregard for her is a constant torment. From a life in bondage, this woman has moved into a life of pain. She discovered that she was HIV positive after our staff found her very, very sick and insisted she be tested. She became a Christian, and now is training to be a volunteer with the Hope program. She said that she is happy that she has new friends who are training with her.

As we sat there, across from her, watching tears fall down her cheeks and Nari (the staff leader) comfort her, I wasn't sure what to do. This story is heartbreaking—and I've heard it before, all too often. Sometimes I feel like that little boy trying to plug the dam in Holland with only his thumb. How do we stop the tide of hurt, of pain, of sorrow? Of all the things I have to offer her, there is not much that is immediate, that brings this young woman out of her situation and into something hopeful. To give her money is to ask her family to steal from her, and it's not sustainable. What does love look like here? How do we be "Good Samaritans" when the wounds are to the heart?

I promised to pray. I held out empty hands, wishing that I had something more to give, anything that would help. I know that prayer is something. I know that it is powerful and effective and that I shouldn't feel like I'm offering a consolation prize when I commit to pray. In these moments, though, it seems like such a small gift, a band-aid for a gaping wound.

Perhaps what is most humbling about these situations is that I have no control over the outcome. This woman's emotional (and physical) wounds can only be healed by God. He does promise hope for those who are suffering; to "comfort those who mourn and provide for those who grieve in Zion— to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair" (Isaiah 61:2-3). If we take Him at His word, holding out empty hands in prayer is to weep with those who are mourning, and in doing so, to let ourselves be transformed by their pain. I guess this is where the feelings of incompetence and ineffectiveness are realized. It isn't my job to bring healing or transform lives; that responsibility belongs to the Lord. I am to serve them, to abandon my own desire to be useful, and commit myself to that supposedly meager offering of prayer. Ultimately, I suppose it gives God the glory—for who else could transform death into life? Certainly not me.